


power's turned on

by rillrill



Category: House of Cards (US TV)
Genre: Cuck! That! Governor!, Cuckolding, F/F, Light Dom/sub, Multiple Orgasms, Older Woman/Younger Woman, Open Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-04
Updated: 2017-06-04
Packaged: 2018-11-08 18:53:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11087817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rillrill/pseuds/rillrill
Summary: The Conways pay the Underwoods another visit in the White House.





	power's turned on

**Author's Note:**

> Let Claire Fuck A Woman 2K17!!!!
> 
> title is, as you probably guessed, from "Fight Song" because I don't know how to love myself

It’s Francis’ idea, to invite the Conways to the White House again, once more before the final run-off in this godforsaken electoral clusterfuck, and it’s a testament to Will Conway’s stiff upper lip, or perhaps an unspoken erotic desire for humiliation, that he accepts. And Claire trusts that Francis has some hidden ace up his sleeve, some reason for bringing them here. He has the recording, after all, and some desire to see Will concede even without its release. And so the Conways walk into their White House, her White House, on a Sunday night, and Claire immediately knows what her part is: keep the wife out of the room while her husband plays out this hand.  
  
Hannah’s looking at her with those big Bambi eyes, all betrayal and wounded pride, and Claire cocks a brow. “Would you like to take a little walk with me?” she asks, and Hannah exhales hard through her nostrils, shooting her a shot-deer glare.  
  
“Let me rephrase,” Claire says. “We’ll let the gentlemen have the room, and we’re going to take a walk.”  
  
Hannah follows her, because, well, what choice does she have? Claire knows her type all too well. She’s traded away her agency for the cache of standing by her husband’s side. Will doesn’t listen to her — not when it matters. And Claire doesn’t envy her, because what she has - it’s never been perfect, but she wouldn’t trade it for this. Not for what Hannah Conway has. Fidelity, and voicelessness, and those children. No. Perish the thought.  
  
“Are you happy?” Hannah asks as they round the corner near the bedroom, and her voice is low and wounded. Claire turns to her, thoughtfully, considering the question.  
  
What Hannah means is: _Are you happy with yourself? With what you’ve done?_ But in the moment it strikes at something bigger, at the very thought tugging at the edge of Claire’s organized, orderly mind. It’s almost too appropriate, the kind of question she’d expect had been fed by a campaign staffer if it came at a rally or town hall. But instead it’s organic, and it’s barbed, and it’s razor-sharp in the asking. And Claire doesn’t hesitate when she answers.  
  
“Yes,” says Claire.  
  
Hannah’s still looking at her. She’s got her arms folded and her nails dug into the skin of her upper arms, leaving little half-moon marks in the flesh there. The unsprung tension in her spine looks painful, and the little nascent parallel lines in her brow are the mark of a woman unused to stress who has recently gone through quite a lot of it. Claire looks at her, and she makes the executive decision. She’d like to leave a few marks of her own.  
  
“You wouldn’t like it, you know,” Claire says casually, leading Hannah into the residence master bedroom. “Being First Lady. It wouldn’t suit you.”  
  
“How would you know what suits me?” Hannah asks, and it’s only now, behind closed doors, that her voice rises above a choked whisper. It’s less mellifluous now, less staged. Alone, without the men, Hannah sounds nearly human. _That_ alone suits her fine.  
  
“Oh, like you’d be happy, serving at soup kitchens and picking out draperies,” Claire says. She shakes her head, laughing a little, watching Hannah’s body language for a response. “No, dear. It doesn’t suit anyone. You’d have to be brain-dead to find it truly fulfilling. Didn’t you ever wonder, really, why I strove for more? Why I chased my ambition instead of swallowing it down and pretending that performing domesticity was my childhood dream come true?”  
  
“Your husband —” Hannah says, and Claire laughs again, this time a little softer, more open. She takes a step closer to Hannah and reaches out to rest a hand, whisper-gentle, on her shoulder. Expects her to jerk away. She doesn’t. Hannah moves into it by millimeters, grip on her own biceps decreasing in force, red blooming into the places her nails had dug in. Up close, she smells like powdery violets, some perfume Claire knows she once owned, but couldn’t remember by name. And she wants this. Francis would hardly disapprove, and Tom — well, what Tom doesn’t know can’t hurt him. (After all, Tom doesn’t know much of anything.)  
  
“Francis couldn’t get elected dogcatcher if I weren’t standing behind him,” Claire says softly. “And the only difference between your husband and mine is that mine knows that. Yours still labors under the illusion that his accomplishments have some meaning without you. That he’d be half the man he is if you weren’t in the picture.”  
  
“Mrs. Underwood,” Hannah says without elaboration, faltering, big doe eyes flickering up to Claire’s, and Claire raises her eyebrows expectantly.  
  
“Madame President,” she says meaningfully, and in an instant, she sees Hannah bite down on her own lower lip, and she knows she’s cracked her. She slides her hand down Hannah’s left arm, down to where the fingers of her right hand are still folded tight over the muscle there, and when she slides her index finger beneath Hannah’s grip, it loosens —  
  
“Madame President,” Hannah says, correcting herself, and Claire’s cunt throbs with want, with the swell of power in the words, and Hannah blinks a couple times before meeting her eyes —  
  
— and Hannah loosens her grip a little more, and as Claire slides her fingers underneath hers, they intertwine, first gradually and then all at once, until their hands are laced together, standing eye to eye, tall in their heels and Hannah’s jaw a little less set than before —  
  
Hannah seems stunned, at first, when Claire kisses her. She’s stock-still and frozen for the first split second, until Claire tightens her grip on her hand — and then she starts to kiss back, tentative at first and then harder, hotter, deeper. She’s soft — _God_ , but she’s soft — and when Claire claps her free hand over the back of her neck and squeezes, she moans against Claire’s lips, hiss of breath escaping as she tips her head back. Claire kisses her jaw, her neck, noting how she gasps as she sucks on the pulse point beneath her ear, where she smells even more like violets.  
  
She could kiss this girl for hours, but she’s got a job to do, and Hannah’s making it easy.  
  
Easy — no, not easy. _Pliable_ , that’s the word for it. Hannah lets Claire walk her backward toward the bed, the same bed on which she fucks her husband, her lover, herself. Claire pushes her all the way back until Hannah’s knees hit the mattress and she spills onto the bed, long smooth legs sprawled out and spread wide. Claire runs both hands up her calf, up to the hem of her skirt, and doesn’t hesitate before rucking it up to her waist, prompting a coy little gasp.  
  
“You’re not getting shy,” Claire remarks, looking at Hannah on the bed, hair mussed and a flush rising high on her porcelain cheekbones. Beautiful girl, really, though the hair doesn’t suit her. Hannah shakes her head, still chewing on her swollen lower lip.  
  
“No,” she says, voice dipping back down to a whisper.  
  
“No?” Claire asks, stroking her thighs — up and down, up and down, a little closer to her groin every time. “What do you want, then?”  
  
“I — I’d like — er,” Hannah stammers, sounding uncertain and entirely like she’s never done this before. The corner of Claire’s mouth twitches up into a smile, and she runs her right hand up Hannah’s inner thigh, and this time, she doesn’t stop. She runs two fingers over the gusset of Hannah’s grey lace panties, keeping her touch light enough to tease, but it’s enough — she’s soaked. Good. Very good.  
  
“I’m certain he doesn’t know how to touch you,” Claire remarks coolly, running her fingers up and down, up and down, dragging the pads of her fingertips over Hannah’s cunt. Hannah sucks in a breath, teeth sunken into her lower lip. “Men never care to learn, do they? If we don’t tell them exactly how — oh, but he wouldn’t like to take direction, would he?”  
  
“N—not exactly,” Hannah grits out, falling back on her elbows, and Claire smirks, sliding her other hand up her thigh and pushing her legs open wider.  
  
Her own dress is a little too tight to permit free movement, and she’d like to get into this, use her weight, so she pauses, cupping Hannah’s sex through her underwear and saying, “Stay just like this, dear. Don’t move a muscle.”  
  
“I — yes, Madame President.”  
  
“Good girl.” And she takes her hand away, stepping back and deftly undoing the clasp and zipper on her own dress and slipping out of the sleeves. It slides down her body, landing in a perfect red worsted-spun puddle at her feet, and she steps away and bends to retrieve and fold it. Lays it aside and looks back at Hannah. Hannah’s watching her, looking at her like she’s looking at God, and another throb of want and triumph pulses through Claire as she pulls her shoulders back and smirks a little, preening, letting Hannah take in her matching bra and underwear, how her calves and quads ripple as she shifts her weight in her heels. For Hannah’s benefit — she doesn’t take off her heels.  
  
“Very good,” Claire says again. And she advances on Hannah again, crawling atop her on the bed, positioning herself on all fours above her until Hannah flops down flat on her back and accepts her weight atop her. Claire’s fingers go nimbly to the pussy bow on her blouse, pulling the knot loose and then undoing the buttons beneath it until the top hangs open. She kisses Hannah again, sliding her hand back down to the waist of her panties and getting her fingers hooked underneath — it takes a bit of maneuvering, but she manages to slide them down a few inches, over the knobs of Hannah’s hipbones, until Hannah’s panting against her lips and bucking her cunt up to her hand, and then Claire sits back up, straddling her waist, and cupping her hands around either side of her neck.  
  
“Madame,” Hannah says. “Please. I want —” Her cheeks are flushed, her hair’s a mess. Claire surveys her from above, and the feeling in her chest is like a balloon, inflating and pushing out all the good sense and air in her lungs and the cavities of her body. She wants to do something nearly reckless, but then again — there’s no such thing, not in this world, and she senses that Hannah would do anything she asked just now, anyway.  
  
_Absolute power corrupts absolutely_. _Absolute control, on the other hand, is an indulgence to be savored —_  
  
“I don’t care what you want,” Claire growls, and Hannah takes a short breath, looking like she’s been slapped — but not in a bad way. Her pupils blow a little wider, her chest heaves. Claire’s hands drift down to her chest, palming her breasts roughly and pulling down the cups of her matching lace bra. Her nipples, dark and pretty, pebble under Claire’s touch; she pinches them, roughly, rolling them between her fingers, mouth watering. Hannah’s back arches up; she gasps again. “You’ll take what I give you, Mrs. Conway. Are we clear?”  
  
“I — yes,” Hannah gasps, and Claire slaps her left breast harshly, prompting another gasp. “Yes, Madame President,” she corrects herself —  
  
“Very good,” Claire says, and dips her head to kiss a mark into her neck, biting and sucking until the skin flushes bright red. Another below it, and another. She wants the husband to see what she’s capable of. What the Underwoods are capable of. She kisses down Hannah’s sternum, then over both of her tits, tonguing over her nipples and enjoying the breathy little sounds Hannah makes in response — she grinds down, pushing her own cunt against Hannah’s hips, and there’s another gasp, and that’s the ticket, right there.  
  
“You want me to touch you, don’t you?” she asks, drawing back up to look Hannah in the eye. Hannah doesn’t move, doesn’t nod or shake her head. “Oh, sweet girl, you do. You can tell me.”  
  
“Please,” Hannah says. “Ma’am, please, I just —” And Claire threads a hand through her hair, tugging hard, an inch from her scalp, reveling in the way she cries out in response —  
  
“You can tell me,” she repeats, “but it guarantees nothing.” She releases her grip on that tragic dishwater mop and adds, “Would you like me to fuck you?”  
  
“Please,” Hannah shudders, and Claire hums with satisfaction, thinking over her options before she swings her leg over Hannah’s hips and settles in on the bed beside her. It might be stupid, might give away her hand, her power position, but she wants what she wants — she leans back on her elbows, and kisses Hannah hot on the lips again, dirty with tongue and teeth before drawing back.  
  
“Go on, then,” she says expectantly. “Come sit on my face before I change my mind.”  
  
Shock flickers across Hannah’s face, tempered by obvious arousal — it takes her a moment to sort out her body, shrugging out of her blouse and pushing her panties the rest of the way down, fumbling with them until she finally gives up and tosses them haphazardly over her shoulder. Claire watches her coltish, gamine frame with amusement, watches her unzip her skirt and lay it aside carefully, as though anything could be done, at this point, about the wrinkles. The bra stays on, she notes. And with an uncertain look, she begins to straddle Claire’s waist —  
  
“Come,” Claire murmurs, hooking her hands under Hannah’s thighs, “ _here_ —”  
  
And pulls her up, up to straddle her face. She has always worked best with one task to focus on, one singular activity upon which to center all of her energy and abilities. This, then, remains her favorite iteration of that particular quirk of personality. She slides her hands up along Hannah’s thighs, grasping them from the outside as she lifts her head just enough off the pillow to angle it right against Hannah’s cunt. She runs her tongue along her outer lips, feather-light touches that grew a little more firm each time.  
  
When she touches her tongue to Hannah’s clit, Hannah gasps — “Oh,” she mutters, and then a deeper, more guttural, “oh, God, that’s good.” _Yes, dear, very good_ , Claire thinks, and she relaxes into a rhythm, long broad strokes with the flat of her tongue followed by smaller flicks, and when she has Hannah panting above her, grasping at her hair with a firmer hand, she flicks her gaze up to look her in the face as she closes her mouth over Hannah’s clit and sucks.

“Madame President,” Hannah groans again, hips bucking against her face. “Please, ma'am, just–stay like that, just like that,” and the rush is just the right side of overwhelming, to be so willingly caged by Hannah’s long legs and her firm thighs. Claire digs her fingers into her hips and holds her there, breathing ragged through her nose as she draws what felt like an endless orgasm from her. It’s everything, absolute power, and Claire needs nothing but the weight of the body atop her, and the salty heat of Hannah’s cunt upon her lips.  
  
She licks her own swollen lips as Hannah lifts herself away, collapsing down on the bed beside her, and Claire knows she should leave it there, but —  
  
“You taste so good,” she purrs, diving in to kiss Hannah hard one more time, the taste of her cunt still hot on her lips. Hannah gasps again, but accepts it, pushing her tongue into Claire’s mouth like she can’t get enough of her own taste — _dirty girl_ , Claire thinks wickedly, running her fingers over Hannah’s swollen cunt and thrusting two inside. Hannah kisses her harder, hips bucking up off the bed, and Claire kisses her down until she’s flat on the bed, kneeling between those long legs, because if there’s anything she wants —  
  
If there’s anything she wants, it’s to give her something she’ll someday wish she could forget. If there's anything else she wants, it's for Hannah's husband to see his wife like this, undone at the hands of his fiercest rival. But one can't always get what they want. The first will have to do.  
  
Hannah’s arching her back, arms up above her head and holding onto the pillow like a life preserver as Claire thrusts her fingers idly, in and out, in and out. “You have a beautiful cunt,” she comments, wishing she could ignore the throbbing in hers. Never mind it, though. She’ll get herself off later, when the time is right. She’d rather take Hannah apart in the meantime. Hannah’s cheeks are pink and there’s sweat beading on her forehead, and she only nods in response — “What kind of an answer is that?” Claire asks, drawing her fingers out and leaving them just at Hannah’s entrance. “Thank me when I compliment you.”  
  
“Thank you, Madame President,” Hannah says, sounding wrecked, and Claire thrusts her fingers back in, three of them this time, and thrills at the way Hannah nearly shrieks in response. She quickens the pace, fucking her hard, careful to push the heel of her palm against her clit with every thrust, and Hannah’s writhing against the bed and bucking on her hand, begging, pleading wordlessly, every single sound coming out of her mouth both desirous and horrorstruck, as though she can’t believe herself, can’t believe Claire, can’t believe any of this —  
  
“Can I, can I,” Hannah manages to pant, and Claire nods, keeping her pace just the same even as her elbow starts to twinge. And Hannah tips back her head against the mattress and thrusts up her hips, and her cunt tightens around Claire’s fingers, and she comes, shrill and wanton and beautiful and reckless, letting Claire draw out one orgasm after another until she spills, spent, back against the bed.  
  
Claire draws out her hand as Hannah goes limp, and she lifts her fingers to her lips, sucking all three of them into her mouth and licking them clean.  
  
“There,” Claire says. “Now you can at least say you’ve been fucked by a president.”  
  
She lifts herself off the bed and reaches for her dress. They ought to go back out to the drawing room — Francis is certainly finished with the governor by now, she thinks, zipping her dress up and giving Hannah an expectant look. “You should get dressed,” she says, the sentence heavy with intent — the subject is closed — and Hannah flushes again as she struggles to sit up on the bed, like a baby deer on new legs.  
  
Claire smooths her own hair, her own skirt, in the mirror, and before Hannah can retrieve her panties from the vase where they landed, she swipes them away, folding them neatly and tucking them into a drawer, the one where Francis keeps his undershirts. “I’ll show you out.”  
  
  
  
Francis finds her later in the kitchen. He’s got something in his hand, a scrap of fabric Claire immediately recognizes as Mrs. Conway’s underwear. “These aren’t yours, are they?” he asks, flashing them in the air, and she smiles over her empty wine glass, raising her eyebrows.  
  
“What do you think?”  
  
Francis regards her evenly for a moment, before the corner of his mouth quirks up in a smile.  
  
Claire pours herself another glass of wine. She centers herself. She regrets nothing.


End file.
